The Graham Cracker Plot Read Online Free

something.”
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    So Grandma didn’t exactly order me to break the Chemist out of prison. But she told me I was brave and that we had to take care of him. That translates, don’t you think?

 
    DEAR JUDGE HENRY,
    I will tell you three things about Graham Hassler aka Graham Cracker.
    Number one: He is a pain in my butt! Our moms have been friends since Graham and me went to the Head Start preschool. They’ve always wanted us to be buddies, too, but he drives me crazy, and we argue all the time. You know how when moms get together, they make jokes about their kids going to prom and getting married? Well, our moms joke about our future divorce .
    Number two: Graham wanted to run away. He hates school. He hates wearing thrift-store jeans that don’t cover his socks. He hates the extra hours his mom works on account of their electricity getting turned off. When we stood at the bus stop, if Graham wasn’t talking about football or snakes or cowboys, he was always making plans to run away. Living in the mountains, by the ocean, or in Australia. Working as a samurai, singer, or horse trainer. He always had a new plot; always something better than here.
    Number three: Graham is a pest to me, but he’s a big chicken with everyone else. He puts stuff in my desk like wrinkled carrots and spitballs and even stinky socks! Then he laughs and laughs. But he hides from Jesse Ellman, the jerk who yells, “Hey Graham Cracker, you forget your deodorant today? Cuz you smell like trash. Oh, wait, you are trash!” Graham should kick him in the shins; that’s what I’d do.
    Security Guard Aaron says I pushed him over a cliff, and that’s why he gave me the visiting ban. Well, I got pushed over a cliff, too. You could say Aaron took me to the cliff when he banned me from visiting for six months, and Grandma walked me toward the edge when she told me to help the Chemist. But Graham pushed me. Don’t yell about taking responsibility until you hear the whole thing. You’ll see.
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    The next week, I was sitting on a swing at the River Estates playground, which is no playground. The slide is metal. It soaks the sun and burns your legs in the summer. You scoot fast at the top, but you slam to a stop because the bottom is sticky. I scrubbed that spot with soapy water, and it’s still sticky. There’s also a teeter-totter that gives me splinters, three swings that creak and moan, and a sandbox without any sand. I refuse to say playground. I call it a play dump.
    It’s like calling the prison Club Fed. Giving something bad a nice name or a funny name doesn’t change it. Defecate is a fancy word for poop—the Chemist told me that—but it doesn’t cover up the stink. Take River Estates Mobile Home Park as an example. To me, estates says a neighborhood with brick houses that have shiny grills on the decks and people who take down their Christmas lights before June. But it’s not. The places here are saggy and rusty and embarrassed. There isn’t even a river by River Estates Mobile Home Park!
    There I was, swinging and waiting for Mom to finish work. I heard a door slam behind me, and a few seconds later Graham was on the swing next to me singsonging, “I know something you don’t know!”
    I pumped my legs faster and ignored him. Why did his trailer have to be next to the play dump? I couldn’t get a second alone on that swing.
    â€œI know something you don’t know.” He was louder and more sing-y. “And it’s about yooooouuuu. So do you wanna know? Do you?”
    â€œI don’t care.” If I acted like I wanted to know, he would stretch it out forever.
    â€œDo you wanna know?”
    â€œNot really. But whatever.”
    Graham pumped his legs to keep up with me. For a moment there was nothing but the sounds of the swings creak-squeaking. Then he said, “You’re going